


the one in which merlin turns arthur on by waking up

by orphan_account



Series: Merlin Random Writing/Drabble Series [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 01:30:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin wakes up. In a ridiculous manner. In a ridiculously hot manner. (shameless PWP encouraged by Merlin's 5x07 ending.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the one in which merlin turns arthur on by waking up

**Author's Note:**

> Again, no drabble, but it's not a fic on its own so I'll just shove it into the drabble series thing. Whatever. This is for obliqueo over at LJ, who was talking about drawing Merthur porn, and after I watched 5x07 I just COULDN'T HELP IT--watching Merlin writhe around ridiculously on that fucking bench, like a cat. My brain short-circuited and I wrote this.

The spring sun shines through the window, golden and bright and early, and Arthur is awake. He stretches his arms before he pulls on his tunic, feels the faint pull of physical exertion throbbing in his shoulders, in his legs. Today is a relaxing day, for which he is grateful. After roaming woods for game an entire week long, he is tired and exhausted, and for once approves of the thought that he would have to spend the entire day trapped with the council. They would talk about the wheat stocks and the remains of firewood after a harsh winter. None of it would demand his full attention, and if his father were to allow him to seat himself at the farther back, he might even be able to nod off, once, perhaps twice…

Raising his head, he blinks against the sun and snorts. Still too early, then. He is still drowsy enough to entertain such foolish notions.

A groan interrupts his listless musing, and Arthur’s gaze lands on his bed. There, in the midst of an abundancy of woollen blankets and finely embroidered pillows, lies his manservant.

Exasperated, Arthur shakes his head. Only Merlin. Only Merlin would fall asleep with his face on a pillow and then wake up with his _feet_ on it. But many things about Merlin, Arthur has found, rarely went according to the laws that normal human beings were subjected to, for Merlin, as it stands, is no ordinary human being. His wilful insubordination and disgustingly cheerful manner have certainly been the source of many of Arthur’s irritations. Nothing has irritated him as much as those ears, though; as large as cup handles, sticking out from that face in a way that caught Arthur’s attention against his will, each and every time. Definitely inhuman, that. So inhuman, in fact, that Arthur had to see for himself if they were made of skin, like his own—they are, he found out yesterday, disgruntled at catching his own eyes landing on them once again, and at Merlin for having them. They are indeed made of skin, and quite sensitive too, it seems, if Arthur remembers clearly.

And oh, does he. Does he remember clearly.

Remembers the shuddered breath on his skin as he closed his lips around it and sucked the lobe wetly into his mouth, once. Traced his tongue around the shell, teasing it where it was folded inwards—listening to the ah from that mouth, for once silent; enjoying the hands that gripped his tunic tightly, tugging him forward. There was nothing like feeling soft skin dip underneath the pressure of his teeth, sinking his incisor slowly, gradually into the softness of Merlin’s lobe, pressing harder until Merlin made another one of those sounds, and it was just as inhuman as he was, beyond comprehension as it settled into Arthur’s bloodstream and heated up his entire body, made his pulse go wild on the insides of his wrists, pooling low in his stomach, sweetly—

Another groan interrupts him, and Arthur takes a sharp breath through his nose. He notices, unsurprised yet slightly annoyed, that his body is responding to his memories. Not asleep anymore. Right. Of course his stupid, stupid body would react. Of course it would make his breeches tighten, would make that tremble reappear on his skin, creep up his spine to lay a blanket of goosebumps over his arms.

The bundle on the bed shifts, and another groan follows. Arthur is lucky; Merlin’s groans upon waking up sound nothing like the sounds he made last night. If he were to turn on his heels and just leave the room, he wouldn’t have to deal with it. He could just claim that Merlin had bumped his head somewhere, and no one would be surprised. They would be surprised, however, especially his father, when they found Merlin in his bed, under his covers, smelling like him. Smelling like him _everywhere_ , because last night was hot under the blankets, and Arthur remembers it, such a tactile memory: Their skin was slick, slick with sweat as it slid together easily, legs tangling hopelessly, much like Merlin is tangled in the covers he was trying to free himself from now. And Merlin moved, God have mercy. He _moved_ , and there was nothing of the oafish gracelessness Arthur had expected. Granted, Arthur _had_ gotten a knee smashed into his lower belly—but Merlin apologised, breathless, until Arthur stole his apologies from his lips once he’d regained his breath. He remembers Merlin struggling against him, pushing him to the side until he was sitting atop him; and Arthur lost his breath again, at the sight the sounds the feeling, at the sheer eroticism of Merlin’s thin hips, watching the skin slide over the protuding bones as they twisted, impatiently, and Arthur swallows heavily as he remembers the feeling of their sharpness digging into his palms, watching his large hands close around them fully; at the way the muscles of Merlin’s thighs flexed, glistening with sweat, the underside of it sliding smoothly over Arthur’s upper thighs. Merlin could move, move with intent, bright eyes fixed on Arthur’s own and his jaw slackening, mouth falling open to stutter out Arthur’s name as Arthur’s rough hand closed around him, and dear Lord, dear sweetness, again those hips, circling and twisting back and forth, and Arthur remembers closing his other hand around the globe of Merlin’s arse, cupping it in his hand and squeezing, remembers how that had made Merlin almost fall backwards as he braced himself with his palms on Arthur’s legs, gripping tightly and holding on for dear life as Arthur moved his hand more quickly, more roughly, and Merlin’s nails bit into his skin, and he threw his head back until all Arthur could see was that delicate jut of his jaw and his bobbing Adam’s Apple, the tendons in his throat, that slim frame heaving as Merlin’s wicked hips moved with the speed of the devil, with the effect of sirens, ethereal and sinuous like nothing, nothing Arthur had ever seen before—

Arthur’s breath is coming quickly, and he presses his lips together into a tight line, his nostrils flaring. Merlin is waking up, innocent to the heat coursing through Arthur’s body, innocent in his movements. Arthur watches him moan against a pillow and kick the blanket back. His calf is exposed, hair dark on the pale skin, the curve of it smooth and strong.

“Mornin’,” Merlin says with relish, voice rough and low and sleepy. He smacks his lips, then grins immediately when he sees Arthur stand before him, blinking stupidly at the sight. Apparently he’s got no idea whatsoever as to what they did last night, as to where exactly he is right now, as to what state he himself is in—because a moment later he hoists himself up on his elbows and stretches his body. He closes his eyes and purses his lips, crushes his chest against the bed and pushes his legs out. They spread shamelessly along the mattress, and Arthur wishes in a desperate, brief moment, to sit behind Merlin, because the sight—the perfect V of Merlin’s legs pushed apart and what sits between them, Merlin’s heavy balls just underneath his pert round little butt—the sight of it, dear God, it makes Arthur shudder, makes something tug sharply in his stomach. Just the idea of what those legs hide, Merlin’s hidden dick dragging against the mattress, flaccid and unimpressed, makes Arthur salivate. What he’d do to Merlin, what he’d do to him to watch him harden, to watch the flesh swell under his touch and grow thicker, curving upwards so Arthur could put his mouth around it, swallow it down til it touched his throat, so deep inside him.

The idea vanishes in a single second as Merlin’s gained his footing somewhat, because he supports himself on his knees, presses them into the mattress and then stretches more, stretches like a fucking cat on Arthur’s bed, eyes crunched happily and mouth curved upwards in bliss as the stretching soothes his sore muscles. The thin blanket now slides off his body completely, leaves nothing to Arthur’s imagination; for a second he’s overwhelmed with the sheer amount of naked skin before him, but then Merlin _moves_. He moves his body like a tide, undulating it in one smooth movement from front to back, his spine dipping in a beautiful curve and rising to meet his butt, which he’s pushed out, pushed backwards as if inviting Arthur to touch it. Arthur finds that Merlin moves most elegantly when he’s unaware of himself, unaware or lost in pleasure like last night, and it’s the most alluring thing Arthur has ever seen. He thinks it cannot possibly get any worse than this, because his own body’s hot as hell, there’s sweat on his hands and upper lip, on the small of his back, and his breeches are so tight it’s beginning to hurt. Just then, Merlin’s eyes snap open, stare directly into his, and Merlin grunts.

“’m hurtin’ _all over_ ,” he complains, and Arthur feels faint. Feels faint because Merlin must beginning to realise that his lower body his sore, especially his butt, because Arthur’s made sure Merlin would feel it. Would feel it for days, because Arthur doesn’t do this stuff half-way. Merlin, idiot that he is, remains oblivious and just stretches some more until he’s practically writhing on Arthur’s mattress, moving his body like a sin while he is just trying to get comfortable, to get the ache out of his body.

And it’s the last straw, the last thing Arthur can take when Merlin looks at Arthur, oblivious as anything, and half-moans, half-whines, “What’d we _do_ yesterday?”

Arthur is on the bed faster than he can blink and proceeds to show Merlin precisely what they did last night.

This time, he is making sure Merlin won’t forget.


End file.
